That ass looked familiar. And as I worked to place the booty—the dancer raised her arms. Soon as I spotted the tats, I recognized my wife: “What the hell you doin’, Tracy?”
“Never mind,” she whispered, spinnin’ on six-inch heels. “What are you doing here?”
“Gotta meet a guy.” (She had me whisperin’, too.)
“Meeting here was your only option?”
“Yeah, the guy insisted. Least I’m wearin’ clothes. What is your excuse?”
Caressin’ my tie she sidled closer: “Told you a month ago, honey, I was going undercover.”
“Breaking news then, baby: You got no freakin’ cover.”
Blue eyes darted left-n-right: then she snatched my hand. “Give me 100-bucks.”
“Why?”
Tracy goosed my ass, tugged me toward a curtain. “Cuz I’m giving you a lap dance.”
“If you’re giving me a lap dance, why give you 100-bucks?”
“Gotta look legit—or you could blow my cover.”
“Why do I hafta remind ya: Your cover don’t exist.”
Yankin’ the curtain closed, she cradled my leery hips. The AC blastin’ overhead tweaked her nipples good-n-hard. But I couldn’t fight the sinkin’ feelin’ … this cover-job cranked her heater.
Snaggin’ my lapels—she rappelled me to her tits. Breath laced with weed and brandy ripplin’ my ears. Wild blonde-n-tangled hair danglin’ on our shoulders.
“We’re going after Tito Raphael Ortega. The guy has always been bad news. But now he’s running guns—and engaged in Human Trafficking. We’ve got three dead Russian girls. And his goons are the likely perps.
“BTW Jack, you never heard this stuff from me.”
“No shit, Dick Tracy.” Though given her new career-choice, poorly-chosen words.
“So what’s your stage name for this gig?”
She snaked a pink-wet-tongue full-circle round her lips: “Skull Candy.”
“That better mean Dream-n-Look. Not actual oral action.”
“I don’t need your emissions, Jack. Don’t tell me how to do my job.”
“Which job you talkin’, lady? This lap dance totally sucks.”
“I’m a good fucking cop, Jack. I’m going to bust Ortega—and I’ll do whatever that takes.”
“So good cops suck on weed. An God only knows what else. While drinkin’ on the job an arousin’ cocks for money. An if it helps their cause, they’ll gladly fuck your brains out. What’s a bad cop do?”
Still clutchin’ my pilfered-hundred, Tracy bobbed-n-sucked three fingers. Then boldly jammed the bill—up ’er white G-string’s lacy crotch. Sassily she stomped off. In silver Fuck-Me pump stilettos; those familiar ass-cheeks waggin’—as if wavin’ me goodbye ... after six roller-coaster-years. While f’ugly dead Ben Franklin smacked his lips against her snatch.
The thought off a hundred Washingtons was absolutely gross.
I slid into the VIP-booth. Knuckle-tapped waiting Tito; then nodded center-stage: “That chick, Skull Candy?”
“New dancer. What about ’er?”
“It’s obvious she ain’t wired—but that bitch is a fucking cop.”
Tito eyed Raul: Raul left the booth. His eyes never blink. Guys who work-a-blade are like that. Audios, Dick Tracy—I’m a maggot journalist. Who’s gotta protect my sources. But for the record, baby: I don’t suck at my job.
This story first appeared at illustrious Shotgun Honey in 2017. Though Jesse will never be Ryan Quinn Flanagan, nine of her tawdry tales have kindly been given homes in some loving rowdy pubs—like The Rye Whiskey Review—in just eleven months. She also interviews-n-tortures authors for country-fried southern crime mag Story and Grit.
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